


The Things That Matter

by SilentAuror



Series: Love Is [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV: John Watson, Romance, Unrequited Love, companion to Love Is, post-Mary, post-series 3, terrible realisations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3487403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion story to <i>Love Is</i>. John's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things That Matter

**The Things That Matter**

 

John crosses one knee over the other, his fists balled against his rib cage, hunched forward in the visitor’s chair. It’s only been an hour or so, but Sherlock is still out of it. He’ll be awake soon, probably; morphine obviously has less of an effect on him than it does on other people. John supervised its administration after he’d told them, nodding curtly when the doctor in charge proposed an appropriate dosage. “But no more after that,” he’d said. The doctor had exchanged glances with a nurse, then agreed. “He’s used to getting roughed up,” John added. “He’ll be fine with paracetamol. Just keep the pain under control during the surgery.” 

They’d let him stay in the room while they’d stitched Sherlock up, even after he told them he wasn’t Sherlock’s partner. It is and isn’t true. It is, in the sense that they live together and if Sherlock was going to list a next of kin, he would certainly list John before Mycroft or his parents or even Mrs Hudson. It isn’t true in the sense that Sherlock would like it to be, though. He watched the doctor sew Sherlock’s pale skin closed and thought that if he’d known how relatively shallow the cut was, he could have just done it himself at home. Then again, with things as they are now, maybe it’s better that John brought him to the hospital. 

Sherlock had passed out in the alley, doubled over, his hand covered in blood. John had been shouting at him, his own hand going to feel the wound, the attacker forgotten, completely unimportant. He’d pulled out his phone and dialled Emergency Services immediately, demanding an ambulance. Then he’d stripped off his jacket and shirt and balled the latter, pressing it to the gaping incision to staunch the blood pouring out of it, unaware that his lips were numb, his face white. When the paramedics arrived eight minutes later (Sherlock is right about that, he’d noticed in vague passing), they’d actually wanted to take _his_ blood pressure, too. 

He’d shaken them off. “I’m fine. I’m not in shock.” He’d nodded at Sherlock’s still form. “Just pay attention to him, would you? Make sure he’s okay.”

One of them had given him a curious glance. “Of course, sir,” he’d said, immediately deferential. “Your partner?” 

John had hesitated, then shaken his head. “My friend. My best friend.” 

This was accepted and processed immediately, no one caring enough to challenge him on it. In the end, did it really matter, anyway? 

It _does_ matter, though, John thinks rebelliously, still crunched in on himself, trying not to glare at Sherlock’s chest as it rises and falls beneath the sheet. They had been just fine as they were, before Mrs Hudson had meddled, prodded Sherlock into that awful conversation. They knew where they stood. They both knew how important they were to each other, how incalculably significant their friendship was for both of them. Why had Sherlock had to go and – do that? It’s not that John blames him, exactly, but – there had always been more going on under the surface, right from day one, and it seemed to be their unspoken agreement from that point on that they just ignore it. Sherlock would joke about it sometimes, even in his speech at the wedding, talking about John’s ‘obsession’ with him, and everyone had laughed. It’s safe as a joke. Whenever they talk about it for real, though, it’s always been awkward. Like when John asked him to be best man and Sherlock looked completely stunned, as though John had actually proposed to him. The look on his face certainly made it look as though it were at least that significant to him, at any rate, and he’d forced John to say it all, say that he loved him. Which he does, of course. Sherlock is incredibly important to him – the most important person in his life. But there are boundaries and they have to stay in place. Sherlock, in that terrible conversation, had asked for too much. 

Because it’s something John can’t give. He grew up with a certain set of ideas about how the world works, how people work, what the rules are. It’s true he’s never been much for rules, and yet he’s always chosen professions and lifestyles that require him to keep within the lines. At least to a certain extent. Being a soldier hardly means freedom of thought. Military discipline was safe: chain of command was always clear both above and below, everyone knowing his place in the grand scheme of things. And after that, he’d looked for it externally and found it in Sherlock: someone who would tell him what to do, yet also let him take over when warranted. The least said about Mary the better. And medically, one has to follow the rules in order to keep one’s patients alive and healthy. There are certain laws of biology and physical chemistry that simply must be obeyed. 

Sherlock would make a horrible doctor. But then, no one else can do what he does, so that part is fine. What isn’t fine is him getting mixed up and tangled in the lines of how things are between them. John meant what he said when he’d let Sherlock down as gently and kindly as he possibly could: Sherlock has neither had a friend like him before, nor has he ever been in love. John fully understands the confusion. He’s been there himself, accidentally dated a girl he should have just been friends with, confusing the allure of physical attraction and a genuine liking for a nice personality for love, when it never was. And he certainly knows the confusion of getting so close to someone that it makes one ask questions. Specifically with Sherlock, ironically. He couldn’t explain that to him, tell him that he knew exactly what Sherlock was going through because he himself has experienced the same thing in reverse, got so close to Sherlock that he couldn’t even say whether or not he was in love or what. But he never was, and neither is Sherlock. It’s fine: they just have a uniquely close friendship that’s incredibly wonderful. But as kind as John tried to be, Sherlock retreated instantly. John had given him the out of thinking it was something that it wasn’t and Sherlock had refused to take it, stubbornly insisting that he knew how he felt. 

John had hoped that a night’s sleep might help clear the air. He’d tried that other thing, awkwardly telling Sherlock that it was fine, that it didn’t matter that he’d said all that, that it hadn’t wrecked anything as far as he was concerned. That they were still good: totally friends, nothing wrong. But Sherlock had taken that the wrong way, too, getting even more hurt and withdrawn, and John had realised he’d put his foot in it even further. Finally he’d removed himself from the room before he could do any more damage and retreated to the upper storey to give Sherlock some space to lick his wounds. He’d hoped that things would be better in the morning, but Sherlock hadn’t come out of his room for ages, and when John went to the door of the loo to ask about brunch, he’d known immediately that it wasn’t okay yet. Sherlock’s stiff suggestion that they invite Mrs Hudson had been a godsend, and even so it was awkward as hell. John had felt like an arsehole for letting Sherlock buy his brunch after he’d just turned him down, but he’d realised after the fact that he shouldn’t have said so. He’d gone and hurt Sherlock all over again. 

It had been a relief that Sherlock had taken himself for what was apparently a five-hour walk or something, though he’d started getting worried when it got dark out. How on earth was he supposed to salvage their friendship from a disastrous one-way declaration like that? He’d thought about bringing it up again over dinner, explaining gently that really strong platonic feelings can be confusing for anyone, that he hadn’t meant to single out Sherlock’s lack of experience with any of that the way he had, that this sort of thing happens to everyone. And tell him again that they’re just _fine_ , but then he hadn’t, in the end. He’d trusted his instincts and just kept his mouth shut, trying to let the surface amiability (cautious as it had been) smooth things out from the top down, hopefully. He made sure to behave as though nothing had changed, talking to Sherlock and interacting with him just as he would have before that conversation, even touching him lightly on occasion. Just what he always would have done. Definitely no more – he didn’t want to lead Sherlock on or something – but no less than he ever would have done, either. 

But then there had been that night at the end of the long investigation in Croydon, after Lestrade drove them home and he went and stupidly fell asleep on Sherlock’s shoulder. So much for not leading him on! He’d been ticked off himself over that, but getting Sherlock inside had distracted him. Sherlock had been swaying in his coat, his eyes more closed than open, so John had got him up the stairs and into his room and helped him take his coat off. Sherlock would have gone to bed with his dress shirt and trousers still on, but that would have been miserable to sleep in, so John had just done the decent thing and helped him get out of the rest of his clothing, too. Kneeling to help Sherlock step out of his trousers, though, his gaze had fallen on what was the very definite mid-early stages of an erection filling out Sherlock’s underwear and he’d gone rigid, unable to take his eyes off it for a moment, its shape clearly visible through the thin cotton. New awareness had flooded his brain then, the shocking realisation that Sherlock wasn’t confused about what he wanted, after all – at least not in the physical sense. He still has no concept of what love really is, but evidently John was mistaken about the platonic bit, about Sherlock confusing strong platonic feelings for something else. Evidently there _is_ something else. He’d hastily helped Sherlock into bed then, trying to ignore the erection – even fuller by the time he pulled the blankets up over Sherlock’s shoulders – and Sherlock had sleepily said his name, obviously wanting him to stay. 

John had hesitated, then sat down on the bed. Sherlock in his socks and burgeoning pants was nonetheless somewhat childlike and endearing in his sleepiness, and he hadn’t wanted to rush out, despite the elephant in the room. And then Sherlock had thanked him for his help with the case and John had smiled at him, warmed by that. Sherlock never used to thank him. He’s definitely improved. He’d smiled and told Sherlock he was brilliant, which had seemed to please him, a faint smile touching his lips, and John left him there and went up to his own room to strip off his clothes, trying desperately not to notice the fact that his own pants had gone a bit tight in reaction to seeing Sherlock turned on like that. He’d been so, so tired, yet – he’d simply shut off his mind completely, refusing to acknowledge any connection, refusing to think about anything at all except for the pleasure of his hand on the stiff flesh between his legs. He’d jerked himself hard, not letting himself wonder whether or not Sherlock was doing the same thing in his room just below his. Whether he was thinking of John while doing it. 

_Shit_. He’d come then, before he could get his thoughts off that channel, come thinking of Sherlock touching himself and thinking of him. _Shit!_ Definitely problematic, he’d thought blearily, hearing his breath in the dark of the room. He’d been too tired to really think about it, though, shifting away from the wet spot on the sheets and burying himself facedown in the pillows to sleep for twelve straight hours. 

Later, when he’d re-examined the incident, privately angry with himself, he’d allowed that it wasn’t that he hadn’t already known there was a latent attraction there. It’s just that there’s a difference between experiencing an attraction and acting on it. People have self-control. It’s his right to make a decision about his life and how he wants to live it, and he’s long ago decided that he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t have relationships with men. He just doesn’t see himself that way. Frankly, he’d never really thought of Sherlock seeing himself any way that involves sexuality and other people. He hadn’t even known that Sherlock _had_ those urges, at least not before Janine. He’d never know what had or hadn’t happened there, but the evidence – her coming out of Sherlock’s room dressed like that, seeing her kiss Sherlock, and – _had_ she got into the tub with him, or had she just splashed the water about? The tub isn’t that big; he doesn’t really think that Janine could have fit in there with all of Sherlock’s long limbs. (He refuses to acknowledge how much time his brain has spent on this specific question.) Even knowing that the whole relationship had been a ruse hadn’t answered it and he’d been too angry and too embarrassed to ask. He also knew he had no right to ask, so he hadn’t. Still: the very thought of her makes him angry, and he knows he could live quite happily without her ever setting foot in Baker Street again.

It’s made things even more awkward, knowing that Sherlock apparently desires him. If it had just been the one conversation, John could have almost forgotten about it, eventually. And he wants to, because what friendship can survive one person being in love with the other when it’s not mutual? Not theirs, that’s for sure! He doesn’t blame Sherlock for feeling whatever he feels, in whatever stunted way he feels it or thinks he does, but the less John knows about it, the better off they’ll be. Sherlock’s friendship is the central thing in his life and the fact is that his feelings, whatever they are, are jeopardising it, and John can’t help but feel somewhat resentful about that. He’s tried to be just as kind as possible about it, but it’s difficult to ignore this most recent knowledge. Especially knowing his own slip in that regard, in having let it get to him, arouse him in a way he never wanted to be aroused, never asked for. He loves Sherlock very much as a friend, but he does _not_ want a romance with him, and he has the right not to want it. The right to choose. The fact is that he chose a long time ago, for lots of reasons, and it’s not a particularly difficult choice to live by most of the time. Sherlock just happens to be the one exception that tests his resolve. He saw early on what life for Harry was like when she first came out and knows what life for Harry is still like, some thirty years later. He sort of understands the drinking, to be quite honest. Who can blame him for not having wanted to deal with a life of being rejected and discriminated against at every turn when he could just as easily choose to be with women exclusively? He’s never regretted deciding that way. It’s just simpler. 

Sherlock stirs at last, his eyelids fluttering. His eyes fall on John, unfocused, his pupils shrunk to black dots in the bright daylight coming in. That, and the morphine, of course. He shifts a little, making a small sound in his throat, and John thinks of the way morphine affects some people, making things feel more sensual than they are. Of course Sherlock has to be one of the people affected that way by it. Naturally. “What happened?” Sherlock asks, sounding vague, but his eyes focus a little better. 

“You got stabbed, you idiot,” John says tightly. Though he _is_ glad to see Sherlock awake. Anyone else would have stayed under for at least another hour, but then, any opiate isn’t going to have the same efficacy with a former addict, is it. It’s why he didn’t risk leaving, but instead called Mycroft and got him to have someone pick up a shirt for each of them at the flat. John is wearing his; Sherlock’s is hanging on the back of the door. 

“Oh,” Sherlock says. “Sorry.” He sounds more unfocused than contrite and John is angry, thinking of Sherlock lying there bleeding in the alley while John waited tensely for the paramedics to arrive. 

“I _told_ you to wait for me!” He knows he sounds angrier than he should, but he can’t help it. “But no, you had to go tearing off on your own while I was still looking at the body!” 

Sherlock pauses and his mouth compresses a little. He doesn’t speak for a moment, but then he says, “I’m sorry.” It’s quiet and sounds like he means it. “I should have waited. Next time I’ll wait.”

John regrets his angry outburst at once, thinking with a pang that one of these days there may not _be_ a next time if Sherlock keeps doing these stupid things. He shifts closer and puts his hand lightly on top of Sherlock’s. “Promise?” he says wistfully, wishing he could force Sherlock to keep it, to stop going into dangerous situations without John there to protect him. 

Sherlock looks down at their hands, his mouth relaxing, and he smiles, his eyes going bright and happier than John has seen him look in a long time. Maybe ever. “Promise,” he vows, and John smiles at him. For a moment everything is perfect, just exactly right. But then Sherlock takes a breath and says suddenly, “I do love you, you know. I do. I love you. I know what love is, and I do.” He’s babbling but it’s stubbornly insistent. “I’ve always loved you,” he adds, and turns to gaze into John’s eyes, the look so earnest and so sincere that it feels like nothing less than an assault on John’s defences. 

He feels his jaw tighten and pulls his hand back, and Sherlock’s face changes, going worried. “You’re very high,” he says stiffly, averting his eyes. “I think you should probably stop talking.” 

“John…” Sherlock sounds confused, pained. He doesn’t get it, and that very fact makes John want to shake him by the shoulders and shout at him that he _cannot_ go saying these things, not if he wants them to go on being friends, because their friendship cannot survive the imbalance of Sherlock saying this, wanting John to believe him, of the inherent plea of his declaration for John to agree, the pressure to announce that he feels the same way and then go cavorting off into the sunset together. 

He knows he can’t fairly blame Sherlock – he’s high and he doesn’t know what he’s saying, but he’s angry nonetheless. It’s too much pressure and he’s already said that he doesn’t want that. Sherlock needs to accept it, respect it, and not ask again. He has to leave the room. He doesn’t want to talk about this, yell at a man who just got stabbed in the gut not two hours ago. “I’m going to get a coffee,” he says shortly. “Maybe you should, er, have a bit of a sleep. That morphine will make you good and tired, I should expect.”

He gets to his feet and makes for the door. “John, don’t go,” Sherlock pleads, and John closes his eyes, hating that Sherlock is actually begging, not sparing a thought for his own dignity. It’s painful to witness. “Please!” 

John shakes his head and gets himself out of the room as quickly as he possibly can, walking the corridors of the hospital in a blind rage, his eyes not registering a single thing they see. He shouldn’t have said that, he keeps thinking, furious. Sherlock shouldn’t have said all that. He should have worked it out by now that this is only going to work if he keeps quiet about it! It was the morphine that loosened his tongue, but it just goes to show that he’s been thinking about it ever since that night, rebelling against what John told him like a child insisting on his point. 

Somehow John acquires a coffee and then finds an empty dead end corridor and leans against the wall, bending over, his free hand on his knee. What the hell is he supposed to do about this? How is this supposed to work if Sherlock is going to just resent him for not being able to give him what he wants, or thinks he wants? John has been as accommodating as he possibly can be about it, because he meant every word of what he said: Sherlock is so very, very important to him and the last thing he wants in the world is for anything to damage their friendship. And yet Sherlock seems hell bent on driving it toward destruction. 

He will just have to block out what Sherlock said. Just keep trying to be the bigger man and ignore it, and keep on being Sherlock’s friend – his best friend – to the best of his abilities. Because otherwise he doesn’t know how it can possibly work, much as he hates the thought. 

The coffee is disgusting and after three sips, John chucks it in a bin and goes to find a chair to sit on close to Sherlock’s room, but not inside it. 

*** 

The following week is horrible. Sherlock is stiff and uncommunicative and John isn’t much better. He can feel Sherlock’s mood spiking out of him on all sides, radiating prickliness. He won’t let John changing his bandaging or check on his stitches and after the first try, John gets the message quite clearly and stops offering. It’s awful. Going to work every day becomes a relief instead of the bore it usually is, and he starts taking longer bus routes home and stopping off for any reason he can think of at all, anything to postpone the moment of going back into the hostile atmosphere of their flat. He’s at his wits’ end and honestly has no idea if there’s anything that even _can_ be done to save their friendship, if Sherlock is going to be this way about it, resenting him for something he can’t really do anything about. Sherlock flinches when John speaks to him and John is starting to hate being made to feel like the aggressor. It’s not Sherlock’s fault that he feels however it is that he feels, but it’s not John’s that he doesn’t, either. He can feel that there’s no point in trying to talk about it again, though. Sherlock would just freeze up and probably say something that would peel his skin off and leave him naked and cringing and angry. 

He decides to go to bed. “Good night,” he says to Sherlock, who makes a vague sound in his throat but otherwise doesn’t respond. John sighs to himself and goes upstairs, leaving Sherlock sitting there in his chair, his eyes unfocused and reflecting the bright light of his laptop in the dark of the sitting room. 

In the morning when he gets up, Sherlock isn’t out of his room yet. John overslept a bit and hurries through his morning routine, skipping the shower because there isn’t time, then just barely catches the latest bus. He doesn’t really feel like going to work. The clinic has enough doctors and sometimes there are slow days with nothing but seniors who just want to talk to someone (or complain, more often) rather than having any specific medical concerns, and John dreads these. It’s fine. It’s work. But he doesn’t love it. He heads home after the day finally winds down, hungry and tired. 

The flat is empty. John looks around, says Sherlock’s name once or twice, and wonders where he’s gone. He’s really not supposed to be exerting himself too much yet, though by now the shallow incision has probably healed. Still, it’s the principle. John calls his name again. Nothing. He decides to send a quick text. 

_Where are you?_

There’s no response. John has a look after a couple of minutes and sees that the message was read. Evidently Sherlock isn’t going to deign to tell him. He sighs and decides to have a shower, since he hadn’t in the morning. He puts the same clothes back on after, feeling much better, then checks his phone again. Still nothing from Sherlock. His stomach grumbling by now, John sends another text. 

_Was thinking of making supper._  
_You coming home sometime soon?_

He waits another five minutes without getting a response, though that text is shown as _read_ , too, then silently curses Sherlock and starts making dinner. Sherlock has neither texted nor arrived by the time he’s finished cooking, so John eats by himself. It feels lonely and the flat is eerily quiet. Even when Sherlock is silent – even the way he’s been lately – his presence is a constant around the flat and without it, the entire house feels empty. John can’t help but look at the vacant chair across from his and hope that this isn’t the start of a trend, Sherlock just going off and not telling him where he’s going, excluding him from whatever he’s doing. It feels like an inevitable downward spiral and John decides on the spot that they have to talk again, get things turned around. Because this is unbearable. The tension between them has been eating away at him. His eyes are stuck on the empty place across from him and John wishes with all his might that Sherlock were here, that things were normal and good between them, that Sherlock was there laughing through his peculiar, beautiful eyes and making fun at the namelessness of yet another of John’s dishes, all the while eating two generous helpings of it and genially refilling John’s wineglass even when John’s told him he’s had enough. (“It’s the last of the bottle; no point saving it,” Sherlock would have said, logically, and John would have stopped arguing and just drunk it.) 

He finishes and puts the leftovers in the fridge. Maybe Sherlock will come home later and want to eat. (He hates this.) And where the hell _is_ he, anyway? John goes into the sitting room to see if maybe Sherlock scrawled a note or something – but why is he deliberately ignoring John’s texts? It’s completely frustrating. There is nothing on the desk or the coffee table. But then John turns toward the mantle, and sees it: a rectangular white envelope with something written on it. He goes closer, his stomach tying itself into knots without him even knowing why. It’s his name. _John_ , scrawled in Sherlock’s slanted, swirling hand. 

A terrible feeling comes over him, and even as John picks the envelope up with numb fingers, he knows: Sherlock has left. _Oh, God, no._ He hears himself breathing the words aloud, exhaling heavily. He gets the letter open with clumsy fingers and begins to read. 

_Dear John,_ the letter begins. (Oh God. Sherlock has written him a Dear John.) 

_I have never before written a letter like the one I am writing you now. This is difficult to do and difficult to say, but there is something I feel you need to know. By the time you read this, I will be gone, which is why I can say this now._

So it’s true, John thinks numbly. Sherlock has left him. The light in the sitting room is dim, so he carries the letter into the kitchen, leaning against the counter to read the rest of it. His abdomen twists itself into even tighter knots. 

_I never would have spoken about this at length, knowing as I do that you do not share my feelings, out of an attempt to salvage our friendship. However it seems clear by now that our friendship is not what it was and while I appreciate the efforts you have gone to in order to ensure its continuation, I have decided that it will be easier for both of us if I leave. You may keep the flat. I will find somewhere else to stay, and you and Mrs Hudson would be good for one another. She could do with your company._

_You seem to think that I have no clear concept of what love is. This is the point I feel I must defend. It’s bad enough to have you reject me on strictly romantic grounds, but the fact that you don’t believe me even capable of feeling what I feel, that you cannot even take the concept seriously, is worse. I know what love is. Perhaps there was a time when I didn’t, but then I met you, and I learned._

_Love is, in my estimation, more than a feeling of affection for another person. Love is something that elevates the everyday into the extraordinary. Love is learning to compromise, wanting to compromise, wanting to meet the other person’s needs. Perhaps you would say that I am not very good at any of these things, and perhaps you would be correct. The difference is that I want to be good at these things, for you. I want to not forget to wait for you. I want to always notice when you’ve left a room, and I almost always do, now. Love means the other person being the centre of one’s focus, the highest priority. Love means sacrifice, and if I have failed you in some of the above points, I don’t think that you could fairly say this of me regarding this one thing, at least._

_When I falsified my suicide in front of you, I neglected to tell you after the fact that I had been obliged to do so by Moriarty. Your life and those of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were hanging in the balance. He had snipers pinpointing all three of you, poised to shoot unless I jumped. I couldn’t tell you at the time, and later it never seemed to come up. Perhaps a sacrifice doesn’t count if it’s only done through blackmail, you might say. Perhaps those two years I spent on my own, without you by my side, cannot be called a sacrifice of love when your life wasn’t the only life I was trying to save. I think I do deserve credit for Magnussen, though. I never thought that you felt the same way. That was obvious: you married someone else and I helped you do it. What is love, if not calmly standing by and watching the person you love marry someone else? And once we knew about Mary, I did everything in my power to save your marriage for you. In my understanding, that is how love functions: love is doing everything in one’s power to ensure the other person’s happiness, even at the sacrifice of one’s own. I knew that I would be prosecuted for Magnussen’s murder, and in a way, I was. I was to have died in Serbia, which I think you knew, or suspected. Without you I didn’t feel that my own life had much particular meaning. I wanted to do what I could to keep you safe and make you happy. I don’t know how well I succeeded in that, but my point is simply that I did everything in my power to put your happiness above my own. In my understanding of what love is, this is no more and no less than what anyone who loves someone should do._

_It strikes me now that knowing how I feel has caused you no small amount of personal inconvenience and unhappiness. I realise that you cannot help not feeling a certain way any more than I can help feeling the way I do. I hold you blameless in this, even if there has been evidence to believe that Mrs Hudson’s assertions were correct. Regardless, I say again that I appreciate everything you have done to attempt to accommodate the inconvenience of my feelings for you. Yet it seems to me that because of this our friendship is causing you more grief than pleasure and this is something I find intolerable. I regret to do this. It is the last thing I have ever wanted: to leave you. Nonetheless, I feel it would be for the best._

_I wish you all the very best. I mean that._  
_Your friend,_  
_Sherlock Holmes_

John gets to the bottom of the second page and finds that he has turned to stone. He cannot breathe. His brain is experiencing so many new thoughts at once that they all seem to cancel each other out and leave him feeling utterly, utterly blank. After nearly a minute, John’s lungs remember how to function and he takes a deep, shuddering breath. Sensation returns and he feels pain crash through every single part of his being, body and mind, black and heavy and terrible, crushing him under its weight. 

_He never saw it._ He is so, so, _so_ monumentally, intensely stupid. He never saw it at all. Sherlock loves him. This is the first principal truth that stands out. Sherlock absolutely knew what he was talking about, and it’s true. It’s not that his friend has himself an unfortunate, inconvenient crush! Sherlock just said it: he would have willingly _died_ for John, and John never even noticed it, never understood the reasons behind some very important events at all. The second blinding truth screaming in his face just now is that it’s absolutely mutual, that he loves Sherlock exactly the same way. It’s that simple: that’s the only thing that even matters. All of his arguments and rationalisations have been swept away. He loves Sherlock. Terribly. Infinitely. Sherlock and he belong to one another and always have, and nothing has ever truly threatened that. Nothing, except he, himself – which brings him to the third truth: he has just lost Sherlock. It isn’t that Sherlock left, it’s that John drove him away. Denied Sherlock’s love, denied his own, and now Sherlock is gone. It’s directly his own fault and exclamation points of blame and recrimination seem to be stabbing at him from all sides. It is undeniably his fault. He’s finally seen the light, the most obvious, simple truth of his entire bloody life: that he has been in love with Sherlock Holmes since the day they bloody met and now John has gone and lost him forever. 

The arguments about his own sexuality don’t matter. The arguments about making choices don’t matter any more, either. Nothing matters but this: that Sherlock loves him and he loves Sherlock back. And it’s too late. 

How, _how_ did he not see it? How was this all such a mystery to him? Everything, every _single_ thing that Sherlock has done since he came back to London has been for his direct benefit. And before that. He wishes to God that Sherlock had told him about the snipers, told him that he hadn’t even had a choice about jumping off the roof of Bart’s that day, that doing so had saved his life. Then again, Mary was there, he remembers bleakly. Had Sherlock already loved him back then? John thinks of him doing that, jumping like that, then disappearing into Eastern Europe – and beyond, perhaps? Sherlock’s never wanted to talk about any of that, just said briefly that it was over and best left in the past. But he did all that – and then finally came home, only to realise that John had moved on. (Oh, God.) It’s so awful. And then he smoothly planned the entire wedding without a word of complaint, never once letting on that it was probably tearing him apart to do so. He remembers Mary telling him that Sherlock was worried about their friendship changing. What an understatement! That explains the tension, his compulsive attention to detail, his reaction when John asked him to be best man. His speech. 

“Oh, God,” John says aloud. His chest feels like it’s going to implode on itself. Sherlock told him right to his face that he loved him and John interpreted it as platonic love, the same sort of thing he’d told Sherlock when he’d asked him to be his best man at the wedding that day. He’d thought it was sort of endearingly awkward that Sherlock had chosen to return the sentiment that day, in public. What he didn’t hear was Sherlock doing what he had just done with Mary: promising to love him and never let him down, to always be there for him. Sherlock married him, more or less. And he married Mary. And of the two of them, one of them let him down rather spectacularly exactly one month later, in shooting the other in the heart. Is there any more drastic way to pound the truth into his head that he made the worst choice possible, chose the most wrong of people? 

And then there’s Magnussen. That one is easy, in twenty-twenty hindsight. Sherlock already knew that there was no hope, as far as he and John went. So he not only stepped aside as graciously as possible in his wedding speech, wherein he basically gave John to Mary, but then – instead of having Mary prosecuted for the shot, instead of confronting her over having gone to find him in Leinster Gardens, possibly with the intent to silence Sherlock permanently – he shot the man who was blackmailing her. Unthanked. Punished – or he would have been if Mycroft hadn’t pulled that ruse with ‘Moriarty’ having returned – and sent away, permanently exiled from John’s life. To die alone in Serbia. 

John squeezes his eyes shut, wracked with terrible feeling from head to toe. He hadn’t known that the mission to Serbia was to be fatal. He hadn’t seen it – hadn’t allowed himself to see it, possibly. Or assumed that Sherlock, being Sherlock, would find a way to slip out of it again, cheat death one more time. He did after Moriarty. He did after Mary. So why not after Magnussen, too? But the fact remains that Sherlock believed he was going to die there, and just – went. Accepted it. As though in defeat. John swallows, and it feels like there is a stone lodged in his throat and it hurts. “Shit,” he says to the empty kitchen. It does not respond. 

_“John… there’s something I should say – I’ve meant to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”_ John hears the words in his head again. He’d always wondered what Sherlock was actually going to say that day; he’d never believed for a second it was that thing about his name. Now it’s all too clear: Sherlock thought he was going to his death and wanted to finally tell him that he loved him. But something stopped him. Maybe Mary and Mycroft’s presence. Maybe the closedness of John’s own face. 

Self-hatred roils through his gut and for a moment he’s afraid he’s going to be sick. He turns around, leaning over the kitchen sink, trying to calm his stomach. Eventually the feeling of nausea passes, though the thick, black, terrible feeling remains. John runs the cold water and splashes it over his face, then, after a moment, hears an awful sound come from himself, choking gasps that are forcing themselves out of his throat. He doesn’t even want to know himself right now. He is the most ungrateful shit in the whole of England, or possibly the world. Sherlock literally would have _died_ for him, all to make him happy, believing all the while that he couldn’t even tell John how he felt about him. 

Because he couldn’t, could he? Finally John’s misguided, disastrous marriage ended and he moved back into the flat, and after a couple of months, Sherlock finally took his courage in his hands and – clumsily, awkwardly, to be sure – told John how he felt, daring to ask about the possibility of it becoming, as he’d said, so painfully, something more. And John turned him down flat. Disregarded his feelings, assumed Sherlock had no clue as to what he was talking about, that he couldn’t possibly be capable of loving another person – all while having just performed the greatest possible acts of love John has ever heard of – discounted and invalidated Sherlock’s claim to love him entirely, casually, and never even considered taking it seriously or actually responding favourably. Because he made a _choice_ , oh yes, an all-important, sacred _choice_ that would never allow him to even consider the possibility of this _something more_ with Sherlock. And it’s completely ridiculous because he knows, he _knows_ from the marrow of his bones that he has desired Sherlock from the first, loves him more than anyone else alive, would do anything to protect him and keep him from harm, would never dream of moving out again, marrying again, any of that. And somehow he convinced himself with years and years of rationale that he didn’t feel that way and never could, or never _would_ , at any rate. It’s not the same thing at all. He _knows_ that he’s accidentally wanked thinking of Sherlock, and not just that one time, either – many, _many_ times – and more importantly, he knows what an enormous, jagged hole Sherlock’s first supposed death left in his life. People don’t just ‘get over’ a loss like that: Sherlock was everything to him. Absolutely everything.

And in response, John has routinely assumed the worst of him, discounted not only his feelings but his very ability to feel at all. He hears some of the awful things he’s said to Sherlock in the past run through his head like a stream of abuse. _You machine. Try not to forget there’s a woman dying here. Just so I know, do you care about them at all? Fuck off. I don’t think you would even know what that was, honestly. You machine._ John thinks of how he reacted the second time Sherlock told him how he felt, in the hospital and under the influence of morphine, but nonetheless clearly and obviously heartfelt. He thinks of how he reacted _that_ time, as if hurting Sherlock horribly the first time wasn’t enough, and this time he does gag, dry-heaving over the sink and then crying again, choking as he splashes water into his mouth and tries to make himself swallow it. 

He hates himself. He hates himself for having been so blind, so willfully, stubbornly determined to stay heterosexual only, even if it meant missing out on the best possible thing that’s ever come into his life. He hates himself for having hurt Sherlock so badly, and now – now he’s gone and driven Sherlock away. Sherlock has left him, in a way far worse than his death was. This situation is one hundred percent John’s own fault. Why did it take him until the moment he lost Sherlock to see that he can’t possibly live without him, that he loves him so much that he could scream it naked from the rooftops? He was so hung up on his vain perceptions of himself and how he wanted other people to see him that he completely missed out on the things that actually mattered: Sherlock, and them. And now there is no _them_ , because Sherlock is gone. 

John is on the kitchen floor, his back against the cupboards, crying and holding the letter to his chest. The tears are hot on his cheeks, cooling where they collect under his chin and drip onto his jumper. Where is Sherlock? Where would he have gone, now that John has made him feel that he had to leave his own home? “I’m sorry,” he says to the letter, his voice a wobbling, cracking mess. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. Jesus. I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, lost in complete hopelessness. Eventually he makes himself start thinking clearly again. Is there any point in even asking Sherlock to forgive him, and come home? If he had any pride, he would just acknowledge the fact that it’s much too late, that he’s far too much of an arsehole, and wish Sherlock happiness with someone who comes even a fraction closer to deserving him. But he is desperate. It will crush him when Sherlock refuses to answer these texts, too, but he has to try. He _must_. John wipes his face with the sleeve of his jumper and sends another text. 

_Sherlock, where are you?_

This shows as _read_ a moment later. There is no ellipsis of Sherlock responding, no indication that he will at all. After a moment, John types another message. 

_Please tell me._

Send. Wait. This message shows as _read_ immediately. No response. John hesitates. 

_Can I come to wherever you_  
_are? Please. I need to see you._

He can see that Sherlock has seen this one, too. He waits, and thinks he can almost feel Sherlock on the other side of the screen, wherever he is. Deliberating, perhaps? Trying to think of how best to tell John to go and sod himself? (Although he was completely gracious and far kinder than John deserves in his letter, John thinks.) He tries another message. 

_I read your letter. I don’t want_  
_you to leave. Please come home._

There is a longer pause this time and John feels Sherlock’s presence on the other end even more tangibly, as though he can feel him thinking about this, feel his doubt. Perhaps he shouldn’t text again, but he can’t help it – the desperation is driving him. 

_I don’t want to talk about this_  
_in text messages. It’s much too_  
_important. But I have to say this:_  
_Your letter means more to me than_  
_anything I’ve ever read in my life._  
_I love you, too. Please come home._

The _read_ appears immediately, and then finally, finally, Sherlock starts typing a response, the bubble with its ellipsis appearing. A moment later, his message comes: 

_You don’t mean that. You just want_  
_me to come home so that we can go_  
_on pretending that everything is fine._  
_It isn’t and you know that._

The smallest bubble of relief bursts in John’s belly, just at the fact that Sherlock has responded at all. If Sherlock is even willing to talk to him, that’s a start. He types back quickly: 

_It’s my turn to tell you not to tell me_  
_how I feel. I mean that with all of my_  
_heart. Now come home so I can tell_  
_you properly, in person. –J_

There is no response. John stares at his phone, willing there to be one, willing Sherlock to say something to this. But there is no answer. John puts the phone down on the kitchen counter and moans, pulling half his hair out and feeling sick again. He has never felt worse in his entire life. One thing is for sure – he’ll at least do the decent thing and tell Sherlock that he can have the flat. It’s _his_ flat! He shouldn’t have to give up his home on top of having had his heart broken by the unfeeling arsehole he was sharing it with. And he can’t imagine Mrs Hudson would choose him over Sherlock under regular circumstances (not that she doesn’t care about him immensely, but Sherlock has always been like a son to her), never mind after she learns what John has done to him. She must already know, though not that it’s come to this point, that Sherlock has finally left. 

There’s a sound downstairs and John’s eyes fly open. (What?!) A shock of hope sears through his chest, burning away his breath. The letter still in hand, he scrambles to his feet, hearing footsteps on the stairs. It can’t be Mrs Hudson – please let it be Sherlock – he stops at the top of the stairs, relief thundering over his head like the sea. Sherlock looks up at him from the landing, uncertainty written all over his beautiful, wary face. The suitcase in his hand drops, forgotten. His lips part, but no words emerge. 

John swallows hard. “You came back,” he says, the words strained, incredulous, painful. Impossibly relieved.

Sherlock misinterprets. “You – you told me to,” he says, looking still less certain. 

John wants to fix that. He takes two steps down. “I know,” he says, fighting to keep it together. “Sherlock. This is the very best and the very worst letter I have ever received in all my life. You – ” For a moment the emotion threatens to rise up and choke him again. He swallows it down. “Don’t ever leave me again, do you understand?” His voice is cracking. “Don’t ever think that I would want that, or that it would be good for either of us – that’s completely wrong, completely and utterly wrong!” He’s going about this completely the wrong way – totally vehement, when what he wants is to tell Sherlock that he’s an arsehole and doesn’t deserve him, that he loves him more than he knows how to tell him, but somehow this is what he says first. 

Sherlock clears his throat. “I – thought it was for the best,” he says. His eyes are still uncertain, not sure where he stands. 

John takes another step down. “I might have agreed, before I read your letter, but – I was wrong. I was so wrong. God, I – I’m such a – I’ve been so blind, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” This comes out with as much vehemence as the last, but he doesn’t regret that. 

Sherlock takes a careful, deep breath. “How so?” 

John finds himself gesticulating with the letter. “All this! How did I not see it for what it was? How was it such a mystery to me? And then me saying that to you, about you not knowing what it means to love or what love is – and then you write me the most eloquent essay on the subject and point out exactly what it is and how you’ve already demonstrated it to me over and over and over again – ” He stops, his voice trembling. “I’m a total prick for not having seen it. No one has ever, ever loved me even a fraction as much as you have, and – if it’s not too late, I’ve – well – I’ve seen the light. And then, realising all this, and knowing that you had left me – I’ve never had such a terrible couple of hours in my life, not even when I found out it was Mary who had shot you. And maybe the damage has already been done and you don’t want to even be friends any more, after everything I’ve put you through, especially recently. Not just recently; there are so many other times I’ve been remembering now, and – ”

“John,” Sherlock interrupts, looking distressed. “It’s all right. It is. I just – needed you to understand that I do know what it is to love, what it means.”

John swallows again, trying to get hold of himself. “I know that now,” he says, and it’s so feeble, the understatement of the century. “I do. I know that. And I don’t half deserve you – but I love you, too.” There, he’s finally managed to say it. “I absolutely see it now, know it from the bottom of my heart. I’m not going to deny it any more. And if you’ll have me – I’m yours, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s mouth opens and he inhales deeply, his chest heaving, and it looks painful. “John – ” he gasps out, and finally that breaks the wall holding John in place. 

He throws himself bodily down the stairs and at Sherlock, puts his left hand on Sherlock’s (beloved, beautiful) face and his right arm around his neck and kisses him with all of his might. From Sherlock’s reaction a moment ago, John half expects him to react in shock now, but Sherlock grips his face with both hands and kisses back just as hard, their mouths nearly doing violence to one another’s. John experiences a shock of joy so tremendous that he feels it splitting him apart and he can’t breathe – he’s gasping for air between kisses and his eyes are wet again. He might actually be hyperventilating but Sherlock is shaking against him and John realises after a second that he’s doing the same thing, that they’re both experiencing relief so sharp that it’s nearly killing them, but the last thing either one of them could ever do is let go, even just to breathe and take it all in. This is too vitally important, because they very nearly fell over a bottomless precipice and the fact that they didn’t is nothing short of a miracle. 

“I love you,” he says, when he can speak, the letter crumpling in his fist. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” He can’t say it enough. He needs to tell Sherlock every minute of every day of the rest of his life, and even then it would never be enough. 

Sherlock blinks and blinks and blinks, inhaling through his mouth. “I love you,” he says, his voice low. “I do – I love you.” 

“Of course you do,” John says, still angry with himself. “You’ve been telling me for years without my hearing it. I am such an arsehole. That day in the hospital, when you were high – the way I was, after – God, can you forgive me for that?” He is pleading, still hating himself, but Sherlock won’t have it. 

“Yes!” He says, then repeats it even more urgently. “Yes!” He kisses John again, still trying to talk but evidently – thank God – unable to stop himself from kissing him, interrupting himself constantly. “Of course. It doesn’t matter now. And I’ll never leave you again. Not as long as you want me.” 

“I want you forever,” John swears. He absolutely has to convince Sherlock that this is real, that he means every single bloody word of it. Prove that it’s not one-sided, and never let him feel unwanted again. “And you know, that time after that case when you were so tired and I put you to bed and you started getting hard when I was undressing you – I believed it then, you know. That you really did want me. I never used to think that you did that sort of thing at all, but – I believed it then. And that was when I had to admit to myself that I’ve definitely wanted you that way before, too. I just – I couldn’t – ” There aren’t even words to describe his cowardice, his stupid, stupid insistence on clinging to his precious _choice_ , but he’s got to explain himself. 

“I understand,” Sherlock interrupts, mercifully. He releases John’s face and puts his hands on his hips instead. “I do, John,” he insists. “With your mother and Harry, and then the army – I do. I understand. But you really never – ?”

“No, never,” John says firmly, reassuring him. “I never let myself even – even think that way, about anyone. But if there was ever going to be anyone, it always would have been you, you know.”

Sherlock hesitates. “So not Major Sholto – ?”

(What?!) John is astounded. “He was my commanding officer!” he says, amazed that Sherlock ever could have thought such a thing. He remembers Sherlock’s awkwardness in asking about him, and curses himself again for not having recognised the jealousy. He thinks quickly, then revises. “I looked up to him, certainly, and I – well, like everyone under his command, at least before his big disgrace, maybe there was an element of a crush. But I would hardly have been the only one! But as to something like that happening between us – no, never!” 

Sherlock looks embarrassed. “I just thought – and Mary sort of suggested it – ”

Of course she bloody did. Why not twist the knife, as if being the one to marry John wasn’t already enough? Of course Mary would have spotted the jealousy and smugly kept it to herself, found little ways to make it sting even more for Sherlock. “What about you and Janine?” he asks, unable to prevent himself. (Damn her.) He feels sheepish about asking, but _has_ to know. 

Sherlock shakes his head, smiling. “Not remotely,” he says. “You were the only one there ever was for me, you know. Don’t you know that yet?” 

John feels like his heart must be showing in his eyes. “I believe you,” he says fervently, his voice low. He puts both arms around Sherlock’s neck now and kisses him again, slowly this time, putting every ounce of what he feels for Sherlock in it. The desperation has finally dissipated, allowing this kiss to turn sensual, flooded on both sides with emotion – and more, too. Their bodies are pressed together and he finally knows what that long, lean torso feels like against his own. Arousal spreads through his body like a forest fire. He’s trapped Sherlock up against the wall, their hips touching despite the difference in their height, and he can feel Sherlock beginning to harden, too. 

“I want you,” Sherlock whispers a few moments later, as though afraid to admit it any louder. His lips are still brushing against John’s, his eyes half-closed. “I’m embarrassed by how much I want you.” 

John’s heart and cock both give fierce throbs at hearing this. “Don’t be,” he murmurs. “I want you, too.” 

Sherlock bites his lip. “Can we go upstairs?” 

John smiles at him. “Your bedroom or mine?”

Sherlock exhales in evident relief. “Whichever is closer!”

“Mine, then,” John tells him. “Leave the suitcase. Leave the coat and shoes. I’ll deal with the rest.” Seduction, at least, is something he can do, even if he’s failed in every other aspect of this so far. He takes Sherlock’s hand and interlocks their fingers, tugging him quickly up the stairs to his bedroom. He doesn’t even think that Sherlock has ever been inside it before, usually just calling John from the foot of the stairs. Maybe he was always just keeping a respectful distance? It doesn’t matter now, because John refuses to allow there to be any barriers between them ever again. John pulls him inside, closing the door, and turns on the spot to kiss him again, hastily beginning to undress him. He runs a hand over the front of Sherlock’s trousers in doing so, dying to feel him here. To stop denying himself this thing that he’s not only wanted in deeply-buried secret for years now, but never thought he could have had even if he hadn’t denied it, feels absolutely indescribable. It feels like he’s been given keys to some store of treasure never before touched. And actually, that’s pretty apt, isn’t it – it’s clear enough from Sherlock’s unpractised movements that he’s never undressed anyone before. John helps him, stepping out of his jeans and getting both their socks off. Then he puts his arms around Sherlock and holds him properly for the first time, skin-to-skin, and it renders him so emotional that he could almost go to pieces again, though he manages not to. His erection is touching Sherlock’s through their underwear and he puts their mouths back together and rubs his hands over Sherlock’s perfect arse. 

Sherlock is breathing hard, almost gasping, moaning a little, his large, beautiful hands on John’s back and then creeping tentatively down to his arse, squeezing when John doesn’t protest. He tugs at John’s underwear and John understands immediately, pulling first his own and then Sherlock’s down and out of the way before pressing himself to Sherlock again. He’s never felt another cock against his own in all his life before and honestly, he can’t believe it took him forty-one years of mind-numbing stupidity for him to get to this point. Because it’s the very best thing he’s felt in all his life. John can’t stop touching him. He’s so unbelievably attractive – totally hot, but beautiful, too, his pale skin like marble in the moonlight coming in through the window. 

He looks down at Sherlock’s cock, which is very hard and full, and puts his hand on it at last. Sherlock’s entire body jerks in response, and John marvels at being the first person to ever touch him here, this way. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers, and puts his mouth on Sherlock’s again, stroking him gently, not too hard. Sherlock kisses back hungrily, his fingers tightening on John’s hips, and John plucks one hand off and moves it to his cock, wanting Sherlock to know that it’s permitted, that there are no holds barred any more. Never again: Sherlock can have everything, every piece of him, any way he wants. Sherlock’s hand closes around him, larger than any woman’s, and John feels the glow in the base of his pelvis roar into a fire. Sherlock makes a sound of sheer want and just like that they’re kissing hard again, their tongues pressing into each other’s. And John wants him so badly that his entire body is aching for it, with desire for Sherlock. He lifts his mouth from Sherlock’s. Neither of them can possibly wait any longer for this, he thinks. “Come to bed,” he says. 

Sherlock makes a sound of acquiescence and lets John lead him over. John gets a bottle of lube from the night stand and gets into bed, pulling the blankets back for Sherlock. John gathers Sherlock and all of his long limbs into his arms and starts to kiss him again, leaning over him, still stroking his cock. Sherlock reaches for him in obvious need and John straddles his thighs and opens the lube. 

“This is new for both of us, so I thought we’d just – start simple, if that’s okay with you.” 

“Anything is okay with me,” Sherlock says at once, and John laughs, feeling luckier than anything all over again. 

He bends to kiss Sherlock, reaching between them to wrap his hand around both their erections to the best of his ability. It feels so good that he curses himself silently again for having made both of them wait so long to finally feel this. Sherlock puts his hand around both of theirs, closing the circle, and together they rub themselves, their cocks sliding against each other’s in their joined fists. He looks down between them and Sherlock looks, too. The sight is completely erotic and sends another bolt of want directly into his cock. Sherlock exhales and John looks at him and puts their mouths together again. Eventually he lets go in favour of just thrusting against Sherlock, their cocks trapped between their fronts and it feels really good, particularly the feeling of Sherlock’s cock pulsing and throbbing against his, and combined with the sound of Sherlock moaning, unable to restrain himself, John hears himself cursing and panting. He’s thrusting hard now, his hips pistoning against Sherlock’s body (and holy _shit_ , why didn’t anyone ever tell him that sex between two men could feel this good?? But it’s more than that because it’s _Sherlock_ and they’re finally, finally doing this and it’s so – ) 

Sherlock makes a sharp sound and suddenly he’s coming, his entire body jerking and twisting beneath John’s, his hands on John’s arse, and John’s balls are resting directly on top of Sherlock’s and he feels them contract just before the hot rush of Sherlock’s orgasm splatters onto both of them. Sherlock’s breath is suspended, his mouth open, eyes clenched shut as his cock spurts uncontrollably, and John knows for a fact that he has never been so aroused in his entire life by _anything_. He’s rutting against Sherlock like an animal, sweat gathering on his temples, humping Sherlock’s still-spurting cock with all his might, the orgasm closing in on him and then he’s there – Sherlock is gasping, still coming, and John’s eyes close and the sweet, sweet friction between them peaks sharply, twists in his gut, and then spills out of him in hot release, tightens and spikes again, and then a third time. He crashes down onto Sherlock once it’s passed, both their bodies still writhing together, and there’s come on both their stomachs and chests and even that feels good right now. His face is on Sherlock’s shoulder and he’s panting. 

Sherlock’s arms are around his back now. “I love you,” he says, still breathing hard. “God, I love you.” 

John lifts his face with difficulty and puts his clean hand on Sherlock’s face. “I love _you_ ,” he counters. It’s so important and he still feels that he can’t say it enough. He vows to tell Sherlock every single day for the rest of his life. At least twice. “I plan on spending the rest of my life trying to figure out how to tell you exactly how much,” he says, and kisses Sherlock again, and it goes on and on and on. John’s never been much of a post-sex cuddler, but now he can’t even fathom wanting to stop doing this, because it’s incalculably important. After a little while, he shifts to the side, facing Sherlock, and Sherlock moves closer and gets all of his limbs wrapped around John. He doesn’t want to fall asleep and miss any of this, but he’s emotionally exhausted and his body is more sated than he’s ever felt before, and before he knows it, sleep is washing over him like the tide, tugging him out to sea. 

*** 

He wakes before Sherlock, which is surprising. They’re in the same positions they were in went they fell asleep, and he’s sporting a bit of morning wood. So is Sherlock, for that matter. John shifts a little, pressing his hand into Sherlock’s side, not heavily enough to wake him, just to feel the warmth of his skin again, marvel in the fact that they’re both here at all. That Sherlock is in his bed. They had sex last night. And it was amazing. He thought he had lost Sherlock forever, but _this_ miracle happened. It’s unbelievable. 

Sherlock stirs, his eyes opening directly into John’s. He blinks a few times, as though processing, and John thinks he looks beautiful even like this, sleepy and slightly confused. 

“Morning,” he says, hearing how happy he sounds, himself. 

A completely unfiltered, unrestrained smile spreads over Sherlock’s face. “Hello,” he says, and John has to laugh at his untraditional response. It’s Sherlock’s very first morning after and John intends to make it the best experience possible. Morning afters are special, and this one is the best of all, given the insurmountable-seeming obstacles they overcame to reach this point. He closes the small space between their faces and kisses Sherlock for a long moment, tightening his arms around him. Sherlock responds instinctively, his legs sliding against John’s, shifting closer, and it’s completely different than having a woman in his arms or being in a woman’s arms, and it’s _wonderful_. Everything about Sherlock is attractive to him now that he’s allowed himself to stop blocking it, completely arousing, the scent of him an aphrodisiac, the way he kisses sending curls of desire down to his cock, hardening it. He holds Sherlock tightly as they kiss and gets even closer to him, their erections touching and beginning to rub together and John absolutely has to touch Sherlock again, so he does. Sherlock makes a small sound into his mouth and his hand finds John’s cock under the blankets. 

“Pass the lube?” John murmurs against his mouth, and Sherlock makes a decidedly positive sound and reaches back for it. John takes it from him and gets some into their hands before starting to touch him again, squeezing Sherlock’s cock and rubbing it. Sherlock inhales sharply and mimics what he’s doing. His hand is so much bigger than any other hand that’s ever touched him before, covering so much of him at once, and he isn’t afraid to be firm. They’re on their sides facing each other, both breathing quickly, and John tries pushing himself into Sherlock’s fist and it’s _good_ , Sherlock’s fist tight and warm. John kisses Sherlock’s chin and his throat, stroking him hard. Sherlock’s cock is hot and very hard, pulsating a bit in his hand. Sherlock speeds up his rhythm then, meeting John’s thrusts and all of a sudden John is panting. “Fuck, yes,” he breathes, and encouraged, maybe, Sherlock takes it as a hint and increases the speed again. John forgets what he was doing to Sherlock and grabs for his hip, thrusting hard, then grips at Sherlock’s (perfect) arse, pumping away, and then he’s coming and it’s so, so good – it’s bursting out of him and onto Sherlock’s smooth, flat belly and he wishes he could just keep coming for hours, it’s so good. “God!” he gasps into Sherlock’s neck, mouth directly on his skin. 

He remembers himself then and puts his hand back on Sherlock’s cock. He wants to make this just as good as he possibly can for Sherlock, though – do something to show him how much he wants Sherlock, how much he loves, craves, desires him, so he shifts downward. His cock is still mostly hard, still leaking a little against the soft hair of Sherlock’s well-muscled calves. John settles himself there and then puts his mouth on Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock gasps sharply, his legs and hips all jerking at the shock of being in someone’s mouth for the first time, which John loves. He does – he _loves_ doing this for Sherlock, making him feel this good. It’s all he wants, after the horror of yesterday – he wants nothing more than to make Sherlock feel good in every way that he possibly can, for the rest of both their lives. Sherlock is sucking in breath as though there isn’t enough oxygen in the world to feed his lungs as John works his mouth over him. He’s never done this in his life but it’s not especially difficult, and he knows what _he_ likes (and never seems to be able to get enough of – it’s been a lifelong complaint, frankly) and it’s easy enough to do it for Sherlock. And he loves doing it, really, really loves it. Sherlock’s long fingers are balling in the sheets, white-knuckled and John can taste that he’s going to come soon. Pre-come is leaking into his mouth, salty but not at all unpleasant, and Sherlock’s entire body is quivering, wound tightly enough to burst. His breath chokes out and then his body spasms hard, his cock pushing upward into John’s mouth and he cries out three times as he comes, successively louder each time, far beyond his own control – probably beyond his awareness, even, John thinks, swallowing and swallowing, completely turned on by seeing Sherlock like this. If he hadn’t just come, he would bet money that just doing this to Sherlock would have brought it on. 

He crawls back up Sherlock’s body and gathers him into his arms, his own digging under Sherlock’s back to do so. “I’d call that a success,” he says, grinning. “Never done that before! Seems you liked it, at any rate.” He knows he’s bragging, or teasing, maybe, but he’s completely delighted at having produced such a vocal reaction in Sherlock. Sherlock can’t even respond yet, panting, tremors still reverberating tangibly through his frame. He puts his arms around John, rather, holding him tightly, and John is happier than ever. He turns his face into Sherlock’s neck and kisses him until Sherlock can speak again, loving him harder than ever and trying to say so with his lips and tongue and the ring of his arms. 

Sherlock swallows, catching his breath, and finally manages to speak. “You are extraordinary.” 

John kisses his ear. Even Sherlock’s ear is perfect. “You think so?” he murmurs. 

“Completely,” Sherlock says fervently. “You amaze me. I never thought of anyone doing – that – for me, ever. Yesterday at this time I was thinking I would never see you again, and to go from that to this – ” He stops, regroups, then says, “I’m completely overwhelmed. In the best of ways.” 

John lifts his head and looks down into Sherlock’s eyes, marvelling internally at the openness of his face, the naked honesty in his eyes. He smiles, his heart trying to burst within his chest. “Bit of an extreme shift,” he allows. “Maybe this is all a bit fast. But – it was long overdue, wasn’t it?” His fault, of course. He doesn’t say it aloud. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “I’m still having trouble believing it’s really happening.”

John shakes his head. That doubt is the legacy he’s built in Sherlock, the one he is going to devote himself to eventually destroying in favour of building a reason for Sherlock to believe, to be nothing less than completely confident in their love, in _them_. “My fault, again,” he says. He takes Sherlock’s hand and laces their fingers together, shifting so that his legs and one arm are draped over Sherlock, the rest of him beside him. “But it is happening and I promise you it will never not happen again. _I’m_ having trouble believing I resisted this for so long. God, what an idiot I am!” 

Sherlock smiles a bit and doesn’t contradict him. “But it’s all going to be fine, isn’t it?” 

“Quite a bit more than fine,” John assures him, a bit relieved that Sherlock’s more or less letting him off the hook. The hook will always be there, but it’s nice that Sherlock is being so kind about it, after everything John’s put him through. He really, really doesn’t deserve Sherlock, not after everything he’s put him through. It’s hard to think about that now, though, with Sherlock smiling into his eyes. John smiles back, and Sherlock leans in to kiss him, pulling John more tightly into his arms again. 

There’s a knock on the door and John almost jumps. They break apart. “Yes?” John asks, as Sherlock yanks the sheets up to cover them. 

“It’s just me, dear,” Mrs Hudson’s voice says, not opening the door. “I was just wondering if the two of you would like some breakfast? I could bring it up…”

John looks at Sherlock, fighting down a smile. Speaking of not deserving Sherlock, he doesn’t deserve Mrs Hudson, either. Though probably everything is forgiven now that he’s removed his head from his arse and he seen the light where her beloved Sherlock is concerned. Sherlock being in his bed at the moment is good evidence for that, after all. “That would be lovely, actually,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Not at all,” Mrs Hudson says. “I’ll be back in about ten minutes, then.” Her footsteps retreat down the stairs. 

Their eyes meet and they both start to laugh. “Oh, God,” John says, keeping his voice low. “Do you think she heard us?” 

“Me, possibly,” Sherlock says, sounding embarrassed. 

John grins despite himself. “You _did_ make a bit of sound there.” 

“Your fault for making me produce such a sound,” Sherlock says, poking him in the ribs. 

John yelps and retaliates by rolling Sherlock onto his back and kissing him again. He’s successfully managed to keep his ticklishness a dead secret from Sherlock for ages now, and he knows he’s in for it now that Sherlock knows. Sherlock struggles and gets him onto _his_ back, their legs tangling together and John feels himself starting to get hard again even though he just came not long ago. They can’t, though, not with Mrs Hudson coming back right away. “You note,” he says, panting, “that she didn’t come in, and gave us a specific time frame for when she’d be returning.”

Sherlock makes a derisive sound. “She wasn’t born yesterday.” He reluctantly gets off John and arranges himself against the headboard. “I suppose we should attempt to pull ourselves together at least until she comes back.”

John agrees and puts himself next to Sherlock, tucking the blankets firmly over their laps and raising his knees a little to hide the beginnings of his erection from Mrs Hudson, just in case it’s still there when she comes back. “If we ever decide we have a kink for getting caught, Mrs H is _not_ on my list of people I’d like to have catch us, though that’s just me.” 

“It’s not just you,” Sherlock says darkly, and John starts to laugh again. 

He takes Sherlock’s hand again and holds it in both of his, linking their fingers together again. “I really do love you,” he says soberly. The words come out sounding a bit wistful. “I’m cursing myself, thinking of all the time we wasted because of me. You were so brave, being the one to finally bring it up, but it was there all along, wasn’t it. We always loved each other, in our own way, but it always should have been this.” 

“It’s hard to say from which point, precisely,” Sherlock says honestly. “Perhaps it did need some time. You know what I was like when you first met me. And it doesn’t matter any more now, anyway.” 

John looks at him for a long time. “Are you sure?” he asks, wanting to believe it. “I hate to think of what I put you through, especially lately.” His chest hurts just thinking about it. 

“Very sure,” Sherlock says firmly, and this time they lean toward each other at the same time. It’s a kiss full of promise and tenderness and – John wants to believe, at least – forgiveness and he thinks _I could just do this forever_. 

Mrs Hudson’s knock comes much too soon. “Come in,” John says, not letting go of Sherlock’s hand. She manages the door with a bit of difficulty, given the size of the tray she’s carrying, and John feels badly. “Oh, sorry,” he says, feeling contrite. “I should have opened the door.” 

Mrs Hudson’s mouth twitches. “Not in _that_ state of dress.” She comes over and sets the breakfast tray down at the end of the bed, then straightens up and has a good look at them, her kind face frankly delighted. “Congratulations,” she says fondly, sounding nearly as happy as John feels, her hands clasped together. “I can’t _tell_ both how happy I am for you! Finally, after all this time!” 

She looks at Sherlock and gives him a special, private smile and Sherlock smiles back, looking happier than John has seen him. “How did you know?” he asks her. 

“Well, I’m no detective, but the suitcase and coat on the stairs, along with a letter – that I didn’t read, mind – and your empty bedroom were all fairly strong clues as to what might have happened last night, for starters,” Mrs Hudson tell him, sounding smugly pleased with herself. “Secondly, I heard you come back last night. The landing of the stairs is just over my sitting room, you remember. I didn’t hear what anyone said, just – tones of voice and that. It was enough to get the gist.” Now her eyes come to rest on John, but she doesn’t chew him out. “That, and the sound of _four_ feet going hastily up the stairs after all that, of course.” 

John feels a bit relieved but decides to keep it to himself. She could just as easily bring it up any other time, and if or when she does, he will take it meekly – he knows it’s fully warranted. “When you’ve made everyone wait as long as I did, I figured there was no point wasting any more time,” he says, grinning. Clearly she would rather believe that John wasted no time seducing Sherlock and he’s not about to tell her that Sherlock was the first one to say anything about that. The memory of Sherlock’s intimately-whispered _I want you. I’m embarrassed by how much I want you_ is one that he is going to treasure for the rest of his life as one of his most preciously loved memories, but it’s private, just between the two of them. 

“Right you are,” Mrs Hudson says, her voice coming over stern. She shakes her head at John. “There is a _lot_ I could say to you, young man, but it seems you’ve finally got your head screwed on straight, so I won’t say it. I’m just so _glad_ for you both, I can’t even say!” She nods with her chin at their joined hands and adds, even more sternly, “I assume that this is the real deal, by the way – don’t either of you go telling me this was just a one-night sort of thing!” 

Sherlock glances at him and they smile at each other. “No,” Sherlock says, reassuring her, his fingers tightening in John’s. “It’s the real thing.” 

“Well, _good_ , I say!” Mrs Hudson goes to the door. “Don’t go spilling hot tea on yourselves, now – you hardly need _me_ to remind you of how little you’re wearing, I’m sure!” 

“Duly noted,” Sherlock says dryly, and John snickers. 

She goes. John pushes the covers back and lies carefully down on his front, pulling the tray closer. Sherlock joins him, lying beside him. “She really could have launched into me,” John admits. “She must have known how you felt, since she was the one who urged you to tell me, or bring up the subject of us and what we were and all that.” 

“She did,” Sherlock says. “But she also could have given me a severe dressing down for potentially having left for good without saying goodbye.” 

John’s heart gives another pang, thinking of this, of Sherlock leaving without having had the chance to say goodbye – or not taking it because he knew how Mrs Hudson would react. Giving the flat to the person who had driven him away from it, from his own home. He decides not to say anything now, ruining the mood. Instead, he suggests, “Should we take her out for dinner tonight? Somewhere nice?” 

Sherlock smiles. “Definitely. And then maybe this week you could take a bit of time off work, if the clinic can spare you? I’ll be bored at home without any cases, and I’d so much rather have you here to entertain me.”

His eyes sparkle with suggestion, but John is horrified. “Oh _God_ , your stitches!” He stops putting marmite on his toast to look at Sherlock. “Are you all right? We didn’t split them open?” 

“No, they’re fine,” Sherlock reassures him. “The stitches themselves dissolved a day or two ago. I just have tape over it. It’s probably why you didn’t feel it last night.” 

“You should let me have a look at it later,” John insists, and Sherlock just smiles. “As for the clinic… you know, they can probably spare me for good, in fact. I just wanted to keep up my end of the flatmate arrangement. Not just sponge off you like a kept man.” 

“I wish you _would_ ,” Sherlock says, not quite complaining. “It’s a trust fund. I have nothing better to do with it than spend it on our rather modest life together.”

John smiles. He should protest just on principle, but then again, who is he to deny Sherlock anything he wants? He’ll do it – of course he will. He feels like he’s about to embark on a lifelong vacation. “Deal, then,” he says happily. “I’m all yours.” 

Sherlock looks at him for a long time, as though trying to memorise his face, then says in a tone of wonder, “You really are, aren’t you?” 

John leans over and kisses him for a long moment. “I really am,” he says after. “I mean it, Sherlock. And I’ll promise you two things right now: first, that I’ll never deny my own feelings for you ever again, and second, that I’ll never doubt yours. You, of all people, have a better idea of what love is and how it works than anyone else I’ve ever known. I intend on learning from that, that way you somehow learned it from me. For all your attempts to call yourself a sociopath all this time, it’s astonishing to me but absolutely true that you really do understand love better than anyone else. I’m going to have to catch up to you, to everything you’ve done for me.”

Sherlock’s eyes take on a look that John has never seen in them before, so intense that it’s almost pained. “It’s not a competition,” he says. “We’ll just – do our best to love each other. I think that’s quite enough.”

John feels the same relief he felt yesterday all over again. He smiles and leans into Sherlock, his throat a little tight. “More than enough, I should think. We’re the two luckiest damned people in the world, you know.” 

Sherlock’s smile is practically radiant. “I quite agree,” he says, and his face is so incredibly open and beautiful that John almost forgets how to breathe. Sherlock’s lips quirk after a moment, though, his expression turning self-conscious. “Stop that,” he says, his face flushing a bit, but he’s smiling. 

“Sorry,” John says, averting his gaze. “I just – I feel the same way. I can’t quite take it all in.” He thinks of adding, _I can’t believe you even forgave me_ , but he doesn’t want to ruin the mood. “So what do you want to do, if we’re at home all the time and you’re not allowed to take any casework just yet?” He keeps his tone light, but Sherlock gives him a look so wanton John feels it nearly incinerate his face. 

“I’m sure we’ll think of something,” he says, his voice full of dark promise, and John feels again fervently that he in particular has won something absolutely invaluable that he in no way deserves. It’s amazing, utterly tremendous, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t remind himself of it every day for as long as he lives. 

*** 

That night, Sherlock is brushing his teeth. John, having already taken care of this, has wandered into the sitting room in his dressing gown. He goes to the window and looks outside, and thinks of Sherlock two nights ago, sitting up late, waiting for John to go upstairs so that he could write his letter. It’s a terrible letter but it’s also the most precious thing in the world to him. After Mrs Hudson mentioned it was on the stairs (he hadn’t remembered dropping it, but then, he’d been somewhat distracted), he’d gone and found it, smoothing it out and stowing it in a drawer of the desk. Now he goes and gets it and reads it again. It’s a bit dim in the moonlight (he doesn’t need reading glasses, does he?) but he can make out the words. Besides, they’re mostly seared onto his memory by now, anyway. 

He doesn’t hear Sherlock come up behind him after a minute or two. “What’s that?” he asks, slipping his arms around John’s waist. Then he stills, seeing it over John’s shoulder. “Why are you reading that – now?” he asks. 

He sounds too careful and John reminds himself that he wants Sherlock to never feel careful around him like this again, nor to feel like anything about their love is one-sided. He sets the letter down on the desk and turns in Sherlock’s arms, putting his own around Sherlock’s middle. “I told you, it’s both the worst and the best letter I’ve ever received,” he says, looking up soberly into Sherlock’s eyes. “The worst only because I finally saw the truth and was horrified. Not because I realised that you loved me, but because I saw that I had been completely wrong, that you did feel that way and I’d tried to tell you that you got it wrong, when _I’m_ the one who – when it could easily be said that _I’m_ the one who has no idea how to treat someone I love, even if it had only been platonically. I was just – full of these stupid ideas about who I am and what it is that I want and they were all completely wrong. None of that even mattered. The only thing that matters to me is you, and when I finally saw that, it was too late. Or so I thought. I thought I had lost you forever.”

“John,” Sherlock says quietly, but doesn’t add anything, just pulls John closer. 

John goes on talking, his head leaning on Sherlock’s shoulder, arms tight around his back. “It all just became instantly, terribly clear to me the moment I read it. It made me sick, just utterly beside myself with – oh, self-hatred, enough recrimination to choke Hitler, all of that. I couldn’t believe I had been so blind to the way you’d felt all this time, and the way I behaved to you in return – and finally realising that I’ve loved you since the day we met and that it was all too bloody late – ”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says again, urgently this time. “Stop. Please.”

“It’s true,” John says, not moving. “I’m not – I don’t want to wallow in this forever or anything, but – I didn’t bring it up this morning because I didn’t want to spoil everything.” He pulls away just a bit and turns his face up to Sherlock’s. “I need to ask you to forgive me. I know maybe it feels like we’re past it or something, but – it’s important to me to at least ask.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not necessary,” he says. “I forgave it the minute I read your text.” 

John gives a slightly shaky laugh. “I didn’t know what to think, when you didn’t respond. I really thought it was too late, that you’d written me off as a total loss, and I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“I didn’t respond because I was practically breaking down the door of the bolthole to get into a cab and come home,” Sherlock says, smiling a bit ruefully. “It seemed like the most important thing to do.” 

John understands. It makes perfect sense. “For the record,” John says, just to put it out there, “I wouldn’t have let you give me the flat. I would have insisted that you keep it. Besides, you know Mrs Hudson would have murdered me once she found out.”

“Probably true,” Sherlock admits. He puts both hands on John’s face. “But now let’s forget it, all right? It’s over. Ancient history as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want to think about it any more. Can we just – not?” 

John nods. “Yeah,” he says, his stomach uncurling. “I just – I had to say it. Just the once, at least.”

Sherlock nods at the letter. “Put that away,” he orders. “Keep it if you must, but if you need a reminder of how I feel, I’m right here.”

John smiles up at him, feeling dizzy with the amount of what he feels for Sherlock. “You are, aren’t you,” he says, echoing what Sherlock said earlier. “Okay, then. No more of this. Moving on.” 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. He lowers his mouth to John’s and they kiss for a long time, locked tightly in each other’s arms, there in the window, the moonlight and streetlight spilling in around their feet, and finally Sherlock whispers, “Come to bed. I can’t wait to be with you that way again. I want you so much, and I have so much catching up to do.”

John hears the echo of what he said earlier this time, about needing to catch up to everything Sherlock has done for him out of love, and smiles. “Yeah,” he agrees. “We both do. So let’s go to bed.” He puts his hand in Sherlock’s and together they make their way down the corridor to Sherlock’s bedroom, closing the door behind them and shutting out the rest of the world. John looks at Sherlock as they undress one another and thinks again that here in this room are the only things that have any meaning to him at all: the two of them. Nothing else matters, and nothing ever will. 

*


End file.
